Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Back home, at the computer, searching images and writing poems and having a smoke. Comforts. Almost got sidetracked by the Vanity Fair with excerpts from Marilyn's diaries. I loved her poem about her then-husband Arthur Miller, watching him sleep and seeing his mouth return to the shape it must have had when he was a little boy.

The Goddess PoseWhen you are the OneFor so manyYour face becomes worn.

LamplightersYou can rely only on yourselfFor light. You must illuminate yourselfNot only for yourself, but for others' sake.You know these are the rules in this place.Yet in the evening, the lamplighters come slowlyDown the road. They carry a gentle fire,Its swing and crackle subdued in their stately pace.Have patience, and they will make your way simpler.At home, where light is at your fingertipsFlicking a switch, my daughter sings in the bath:This little light of mine,Let it shine, let it shine.

Three Necklaces

I. Ceramic Bead Fair TradeThose bold round jawbreakersCascading down her neckTo a dollar-size discEnlivened with painted runes, Glowing between buds, Gold skin, no cleavage--Why should such a big piece suitSo well the delicate frameOf the little massage therapist?

II. PearlWell, there is some advantage to age, To having had at least a few loversWith a brain in their heads, readers--What woman of my experience wouldn't knowThe significance of "42"?My prize for knowing the answerPulled from the salty neckOf the young poet.

III. SodaliteThe smith in the desertHammered the silver intoA notched arrow and placedThe blue yoni-shape stonePrecisely in the center.A gift, for now, for me alone.

Second HarvestThe second harvest comes at the end of this month.The grass crackles under my feet. Grasshoppers,Fat and heedless, spring up as I put down my book.In every conversation, I seem to hear myself sigh:"I don't know how I will get the timeTo get everything done." Anything left in the fieldAfter Samhain can be food only for spirits,If you try to eat it, your mouth will closeAround ghosts' hands, harvesting.I reach into the crate for an appleAnd he stops my hand, puts into my palmThe last pear, saved aside for me.Its skin astringent as persimmon,Its flesh sweet, dripping juice.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

This one's been kicking around for days and finally got the last of it.

WiddershinsBless my oppressors, for teaching meTo choose my words so carefully.And coyote, vain, striving and scorned,For his bad example, every bristle in his tail,His doggie cock and tongue. Bless him,Every him, every humiliating himWho ever had his way, for illuminating my way.Bless the bear, every beast, every backTurned against the sun and moon and me.Bless the plague, even the plague of boilsThat leaves scar after scar,That made us who we are. That gave us what we know.Where was I when the world was made?I was a woman in the marketplace,Walking among the crates of apples, pears,Pomegranates, looking, choosing,Choosing you, choosing you, choosingMy troubles, my loves, my ancestors, my fate.Everything spread before me and I chose you,I choose you and you bless me.